Eating more fruit
And other small victories in a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad year

Eating more fruit
Jesse Anderson - 12/19/2024

My wife asked for a divorce via email shortly before the New Year last year, so it ended up being my first Eve alone in more than two decades. As such, I set the bar super low per resolutions, because 2024 wasn’t looking good, and hard resolutions are difficult to keep, so I went with “eat more fruit.” 

It was an obvious choice, because my youngest daughter had latched onto the “buy two, get one free” deal on sliced fruit at the grocery store, and since the fridge in my new place was full of it, I ended up eating some cold cantaloupe stoned. It was delightful, so, I figured eating more fruit would be easy. But next, I lost my job in February right when fruit started getting more expensive, which cast a little shade on my resolution. Yet I kept buying two and taking home three, because even after a divorce and layoff, my goal seemed doable. 

And then a sheriff’s deputy in California called to tell me he had found my oldest daughter. His tone was conversational and upbeat, but in retrospect, he sounded that way, because he was out of breath. I took his words to mean that my daughter was in trouble and he had saved her. But then he clarified by saying she was “unresponsive,” and “sir, she’s deceased. Is your daughter Catelynn Anderson? Does she have lots of tattoos?” 

The pain was insane and almost ineffable. Every parent fears this moment and tries to imagine what it would feel like, but even my most dire approximation was way off. The unimagined version is physically crippling and perversely extreme. The world looked washed-out. I didn’t blink, my breath was shallow, and I felt transported, if that makes sense. The deputy’s voice sounded tiny through the phone, but right after his words translated, that “shock” they tell you about thunderstruck me. Everything halted, and I felt stuck between reality and pretend. 

Then the deputy said to “hold on,” because he was getting another call, and when he came back, he said someone with a Colorado area code was on the other line. Then he asked, “Would you like to be the one to tell the mother? I think this is her.” 

No. No, I would not “like” to be the one to tell my ex-wife that her daughter has taken her own life. But there’s no better way to phrase what he had asked me, and he was doing me a favor by calling – usually, the duty is left to an agency that takes forever – so I didn’t take it personally.

I said “yes,” and then I called my ex. I said “Hello,” and she said “What?” because something in her knew. I said, “She’s gone,” Terra, my ex, screamed “No!” and then hung up. She rang my doorbell 12 minutes later, and we cried forever while trying to figure it out. I got snot on the floor. We didn’t find any answers, because there weren’t any, so she left. That night, the only thing in my fridge that sounded palatable, and I’m not making this up, was fruit. 

See? If it had been a difficult resolution, like “not drinking” or “not making bad decisions,” that nonsense would’ve gone out the window. So, after my ex left, I got high and ate watermelon – please know my daughter would’ve approved. 

Durango, you should also know that Catelynn was cradled by you. Stillwater taught her music; she went to one of your middle schools and two of your high schools; she worked at a few of your restaurants and one of your hotels; she snowboarded your mountains. For a period, if there was something fun going on downtown, Catelynn was there. Then she moved to Oregon with a wonderful gentleman named Malik, and we all followed a year later. After Catelynn passed, Malik posted an album to his Spotify featuring all the songs Catelynn had created, and doing so gave her digital immortality. Her work is on literal canvases in our homes, her tattoos are inked permanently on our skin, and on lucky strangers. That’s what’s left. 

This was June, and in July, my dog Yoda also died. My youngest daughter was at camp – working her first real job, not just camping – and she took the news like she has been taking everything lately: in stride. Yoda “belonged” to her, but he was up my butt since day one. He came to work with me, and then I stayed home with him. You may remember Yoda, because that little black Pug was part of Durango for a while as well. 

But when it happened, Yoda’s death straight-up sucker-punched me. I broke down in my new Portland apartment because bad things aren’t supposed to “come in fours.” I was loud, and I knew it, so I went on the terrace, and then down to the street to breathe. It was drizzling and dark, it really was. 

When I got back, there was a note taped to my door that said, “Please be quiet, you’re scaring my cat.” And the girl who had left it had drawn a little heart in lieu of a period. I’ll tell you, if not for that little heart, I might’ve burned the apartment complex to the ground. Coming back to a note like that after a year like this was a straw heavy enough to break any back. 

Instead, the truly pathetic part is that I started to worry about her cat and felt bad. I went inside. I got drunk stealthily, and then even after losing my wife, job, daughter and dog in true country song fashion, I ended up “eating more fruit.” It was a little win in a sea of loss. 

I put that note in my desk drawer just in case I’d need it later to start a small, albeit growing fire, and then I called an old friend to gripe. It helped when I didn’t think it could. Another friend laughed heartedly at my ludicrous circumstances, and then suggested I sacrifice a goat to appease the random god I’d angered. It’s as good advice as any, when you think about it. 

Today, I’m just doing my best, because it’s all I’ve got. Catelynn put a few of her first tattoos on her mom and me, so she left her marks on us indelibly. That feels good. Her sister is doing well, which feels better. And even though it’s a bit early, I’ll announce my resolution for 2025 now: “use lotion sometimes.” 

Dry skin is annoying, and the “sometimes” will set me up for success. 

***

Catelynn, I’ve been messaging you via Facebook. I’m not sure what else to do with the jokes only you would understand. Thank you for calling Kinley and saying what you did, thank you for the candid videos and talks in the days before, and thank you for making me a father. Thank you for your forgiveness. I really do feel like I have you with me still, so everything is OK. We have your art, and you have our love. Nobody who knew you will forget you. 

Jesse Anderson is the Telegraph’s former “40 -year-old intern” and lead apocalyptic writer. He lives in Portland, Ore.